


they will tremble, love

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodlust, F/M, First Time, Memories & Mentions of Past Abuse, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘He is bloodied and cleaved. There is bile on his tongue; but it makes no matter. Blood, bile, black mud — it tastes all the same to her. Tastes like him, likehome. Greedily, she drinks it.’A post-BotB one-shot—NSFW, naturally.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 27
Kudos: 154





	they will tremble, love

He is bloodied and cleaved. Bile on his tongue. Makes no matter — blood, bile, black mud — it tastes all the same to her. Tastes like _him_. Greedily, she drinks it.

She wonders at why they have waited. Long weeks, days, _hours_ sat in each other’s company: air thick as smoke between them, hunger pooling at their feet like ash. An ember somewhere amongst the ash and smoke; but neither dared move to make it flare and catch afire. Until now. Bloodied, cleaved — his eyes drop another shade as she pulls the laces free at her throat.

His hands on her body: palmprints of a bastard’s blood against her ivory skin. Thinks of him in that moment. Mud-flecked snow clinging to his boots. A madness in him. His name on her lips. A surge of heat between her hipbones as his fist froze and unfurled midway through the air. Panting hard. Dark eyes on hers. Her name on his lips.

What glimmer of a spark happened out there to finally strike this flint to flame?

She cannot say. Knows only that she wants him — wants him so badly it _hurts_. Knows that he might be the only thing she will ever want again. Feels the pain of that knowledge as a hot-glimmer knife sparking through her skin as his fingertips trail her side. _Hates_ that pain. Because she is brave and gentle and strong in her own hard-won right; but — here, _now_ — she knows she’ll never be able to live without him. Not now. Not ever. Knows he is as much a part of her as the ice searing up the valleys of her veins.

Bloodlust, was _that_ the spark that made them both burn up?

The heat in his eyes out there in the courtyard: a wolf run mad by the moon. The way the shadows cleared from them as she met his gaze. Slowly. Trickled from them, like the blood from the cut on his cheek. Chest heaving against the thick leather cuirass; all she’d wanted was to lay a palm to it, soothe the racket of his heartbeat with her hand. Tugs at the ties now, looks at him wordlessly. Half a breath and he is pressing back against her: bare skin of his chest flush on her own. She moans to feel it.

“Shh,” nips it into her throat. “They’ll hear us.”

“Let them hear us.”

Bold and blue as her ocean eyes opening up into his. Back arching off the bed, every bit of her skin awash with prickles: ice, fire — the drag of his dark eyes over her body. A touch of the same lust in her blood as singed in his out in that courtyard. Sets her alight; streaks of fire thrashing the pillows as she rocks her head, fingers curling like claws on the air. He takes her beckoning hand, lets her pull him on top of her. Thighs bowed wide: he fits in their cradle perfectly, as if he was made — _meant_ — to fit there. Sees the question in his eyes, the wonder.

“You belong _here_ ,” she murmurs. “With me.”

He kisses the words from her lips. Presses his forehead to her own. Leaves a smudge of black mud between her brows as he pulls back. Lifts a thumb to wipe it away; but she catches up his hand, wets her lips, glides his thumb between them. Firelight exploding in her eyes to hear the low growl rumbling in his throat. Pulls his thumb free, skates her lips down to the heel of his hand. Salt on her tongue — blood, bile, black mud — makes no matter, she drinks it. He slips his fingers round to the nape of her neck, twists a grip amongst fire-streak strands and levels her face with his. Panting hard. Dark eyes on hers. Her name on his lips.

“I want to taste you, Sansa.”

Tilts her face up, offers him her mouth. “Then taste me.”

“No,” rumbles it. Rolls his hips against her very slightly. “I want to taste you right… _here_.”

Bites her lip. “Jon — ”

“Please.”

She cannot speak. Knows only that she wants him — wants him so badly it _hurts_. Knows that he might be the only thing she will ever want again. Feels the pain of that knowledge; but this time it rests almost sweetly: a deep, heavy ache pinching a pit of fire in her belly. Her eyes on his, her fingers tangled in his dark beard. She cannot speak. Not now, not yet. She can only nod, catch the kiss he presses to her mouth — nod again.

*

Out there in that courtyard, he was a wolf run mad by the moon. But here — _now_ — he moves lazy as one warmed by the sun. Long, languorous licks. Fingers hooked round her thighs, kneading them softly. Rasps of red and black as his beard marks up her pale skin. Salt in his mouth from the blood on his cheek; but he barely notices _that_ metallic tang on his tongue — too busy drinking up the taste of her.

Sharp as she is sweet. Lemons and orange blossom and earth and ice and fire. Each and all burning onto his tongue, his mind till everything before and after and then and now is blank: there is just her. Her. Her. _Her_. He wonders at why they have waited. Long weeks, days, fucking _hours_ sat in each other’s company: air so thick between them once or twice he choked on it, felt the heat of her body from across a crowded room, spilt into his hand more than once when the hunger surged too strongly.

“ _Jon_.”

Would kill a man just to hear her say his name like that again. Fingers tightening on her thighs as he realises he nearly did. Blood in his beard still: not enough, _never_ enough. Would have gone on and on and _on_ till Ramsay was as much a skinless, pulpy wreck as the flayed man on the Bolton banner — but those ocean eyes called him away. Dog to a heel, wolf to its mate; he had no choice but to obey her. Closes his eyes now, breathes her deep. Rolls the tip of his tongue round and round then begins to suck at her softly.

“Mm, Jon — oh! _Jon_.”

Would do anything — _anything_ — to keep her as she is here and now: soft and sweet and _safe_. Her fingers in his hair, twining ink-dark strands round and round till she wears a fistful of obsidian rings. Her head tipped back on the pillows: pool of fire on the prim white linen. Her lips soft and open — his name trembling on her tongue. Be it moon or sun now, it makes no matter: _that_ sound turns him into the wolf he’s always been. Hard and hungry and heartsick with happiness only so long as he is with his pack. Only so long as he is here, with her: _home_.

“Sansa.”

Trips out slow, her name moaned against her flesh. Barely recognises his own voice; it is its own beast: heavy, hazy, so deep with the smoke of the north he almost chokes on it. Little pulls across the skin of her thighs as she hears it — goose-bumps rising, a flush of ice-prickles as she shivers and sighs. Thighs tightening against his head. He pulls back slightly, trails his lips over milk-white skin rasped red and black. Sinks a bite on one such bruise; she says nothing — but he senses what she is asking in the flicker of sound rising up belly-deep from her throat.

Meets her eyes as she is still halfway through her moaning. His fingers trailing between her legs as he sinks back onto his haunches. Traces circles round and round where his mouth has left her soft and wet. Her hips roll to the rhythm he sets; knuckles grating between her teeth as she bites at them to stem her sound. Doesn’t work. Gets louder — _Jon, Jon, Jon_ — as he hulks over her now: fingers playing a tune between her thighs that leaves her bright-cheeked, breathless, buried back into the pillows.

“That’s it,” he rumbles. “Let them hear you.”

“ _Jon_.”

Ocean eyes half-closed on his. Hair a pool of fire thrashing up like sparks from a brazier. He trails a hand up from her hip, winds a ruby strand bright-tight round his finger. Jags back gently. She moans softly; offers him her throat. Looks at her in the half a heartbeat before he sinks his mouth down onto her neck. Thinks she has never looked more beautiful than she does here, _now_ — palmprints of a bastard’s blood against her ivory skin, smudge of black between her brows, fire in her eyes, his name on her lips.

*

“Jon.”

Feels half a fool with how often she is saying it. Sighing it, breathing it — till her lungs are half-full with air and half-full with _him_. But she cannot stop. Call of the wild, that which smokes on her tongue, makes it tremble with his name. His fingers circling her, stroking her — _in_ side, _out_ side — till she is spreading her thighs, pulling him up between them.

Weight of a man again. Press of sweat-damp skin against her belly, smudging the bloody handprints littering her body. For half a heartbeat, she cannot find her breath. Thinks of it all: the courtyard, what came before it. Wedding gown white as snow. The sound it made as it was ripped from her shoulders. Face-down on a featherbed; the will to fade and die and disappear turning her heart to ice. Screaming. How she frowned to hear it. Icy heart cracking to a thousand tiny pieces as she realised it was her making the sound.

“Sansa.”

But she is lost in a wide, black sea. Roaring rush of it all turning the world behind her eyes purplish as an old bruise. Tender at its corners, still. Sound of that door closing. Firelight flickering; fingers trembling as she pulled the laces at her sleeves. _Now watch her become a woman_. Thrashing now — as she couldn’t do then. Every bit of her alive with a fight denied to her when she needed it. Hands on her cheeks and for a moment she moves to bite them. Bare her fangs, snarl like the wolf she is — but the hands are gentle. His eyes, too, when she blinks up through the saltwater blurring her own.

“You belong _here_ ,” he murmurs. “With me.”

Heart a marching boot against her ribs. Breath sharp and quick. Reaches for him — nostrils flaring — as he pulls her up out of the wide, black sea that threatens always to drown her. Claws a kiss to his lips. Opens her mouth, pulls him in, drowns in the taste of _him_ — blood, bile, black mud — till everything before and after and then and now burns away: there is just him. Him. Him. _Him_. Tears on her cheeks, but he catches them up with kisses.

Pitter-patter of snowflakes at the window; scatter of feathers down her sides. Touching her so gently it aches. His fingers on her scars; her lips on his. Raised streaks of sun-warmed flesh atop his heart. Red marks a spill of stars between her ribs. They are marked. Both of them. Blade and burn and bodkin and bruise — blackheart memories written-in to sting as a thousand needle-points pricking silent agonies across their skin. Each scar a story; but they are old, dead — _done_.

This is different: another time, another world, another him, another her. Scars on their skin; but here — _now_ — a new story spinning out between them. Risen from the ashes of aches etched into their bodies, reworked to match the rhythm of her heartbeat — _his_ , too — as they move together. _Melt_ together. Thighs spreading and she is asking — wordlessly urging, _asking_ — for something she thought she’d never want again: a man inside her. Fingers on her hips. Slick, hot flesh sliding between her folds. Buried deep, groaning in her ear.

Eyes shut tight because she is full, so _full_ she could weep from the feel of it: the pulse, the stretch — the sweet, deep ache that grows and grows till her belly is fire overflowing. Hasn’t moved yet; braced on his forearms either side of her head. Letting her settle round him, waiting patient as a wolf in a snowstorm. Finds his lips with her own. Salt on her tongue — blood, bile, black mud, blot of tears — opens her eyes to stare up at him as she tastes it. Panting hard. Dark eyes damp on hers. Her name on his lips.

“Sansa?”

Not a man she is looking at now, not a lover — more than that. Bones, blood, breath; he is worked into the rhythm of each, knotted up amongst them all. Part of her and she — she is part of _him_ , too. Doesn’t speak. Just stares into his eyes, gives the smallest of smiles. Rolls her hips, pulls him down to drown in her.

*

Blood on their bellies sticking together as he rocks up inside her: deep, slow, _full_. Little gasp spiralling from between her lips, tide-lines in her brow, cheeks half-lifting as the gasp turns to a moan. Her fingertips trailing the scars on his chest, tangling up his throat to knot into his beard. Pulls his face down, lifts her own; they fit together like some sweet, dark song: mountains brushing at the skyline. Nails nipping at his cheeks now; she is alive again — red-warm as her hair pooling fire on the pillows. He is glad to see it. Rocks a little harder now; bites at her bottom lip as she folds up at the waist and whimpers.

Tries to focus on the here and now: the red-warm shades of her — shapes, sounds, silky clamp of her wrapped round his cock. Tries to ignore what made her freeze earlier beneath him. But he _knows_. He knows what — _who_ — made her flail like a wolf in a snare. Sees that smug little face smashed to a pulp on the muddy ground. Hears the words shaping those broken-toothed lips. _Tastes_ them: salt-hot as the bastard’s blood spattering up on his cheeks.

 _She’s a fine woman, your sister_.

Words. _Words_. Just words. Fingers sinking into her hair now, levelling her face with his as he tries to chase the salt-hot sound of them out of his head.

 _I look forward to having her back in my bed_.

Anger flaring in him. Makes him jag her hair a little harder. Dives for her neck, marks it. _Mine_. Every kiss, every bite and pull and suck. _Mine, mine, mine_. Her moaning cuts through his anger like a knife — floods him so full of warmth for a moment he feels suffocated by it. Bearing down on her for half a breath; feels her pulsing round him and thinks that nothing else — _nothing else_ — has ever felt this sweet. Life. Death. Reawakening in a darkened room. Nothing. Nothing. Just her. Her. Her. _Her_.

“ _Sansa_.”

Strangled now, all his fury pent-up in her name, her body, her touch, tongue — _taste_. Wolf. Fucking _wolf_. Wants to eat her up, curl around her, bury himself deeper, never leave her. Breath put back in his lungs by a red woman’s magic; but here — _now_ — he feels life surge back through him at last. Pure, burning, aching _life_ flowing from her into him. Knot of bone, beat of blood — every bit of his being lit-up lightning-hot till he feels fused to her, _part_ of her. Flesh, feverish moans, frantic heartbeat echoing in his ears.

“Jon — _Jon_.”

His name in her mouth. Savage feral thrill of it flashing through his veins. Fist knotting the pillow beside her head: Ramsay’s throat, Ramsay’s face, Ramsay’s skin ripped to shreds — not enough, _never_ enough. Taste like blood on his tongue. Brings him back. Her mouth on his, soothing the sting of his bitten cheek. Kaleidoscope of ice and fire as they roll together now. Him on his back; her sinking like some goddess down onto his cock. Rocks herself full of him. Head tipped back, his hand on her throat. Drags it down between her breasts, nips a hard hold at her hip. Red marks on ivory skin: rose-patterned porcelain. Smudges his fingers down through a bloody handprint on her belly. Their eyes meet.

“You would have killed him?”

“I would have killed him.”

“For me?”

“For you,” growls it. “ _Always_ for you, Sansa.”

Bloodlust, is that the spark that makes her burn up quick as paper over a flame?

He cannot say. Knows only that how she feels — here, _now_ — means he’ll never be able to live without her. Not now. Not ever. Knows he’ll never want another woman — never want another _thing_ — so long as he has breath and blood in his body. She is all. _Everything_. Fire-haired goddess; some apparition, some spirit risen up from the blood-red leaves of the heart tree to guide him home. Makes a sound as he realises it: half-moan, half-sob. She _is_ home — here, now, _always_ — his one, true _home_.

*

Something bursting in her blood, pooling between her hipbones. Firelight limning the sweat-sheen of his chest, making his scars glow dark as honey. She puts a hand over his heart; keeps hold of his gaze as she feels it beat against her palm. His fingers clasping her throat as his other hand chases at her hip. She lets him. Bites her lip. Quickens her pace. Pain in her side, strain in her thighs; but she is rising, rising — _rising_.

Finds his fingers with her own. Twists between them as they keep a gentle grip on her throat. He sits then, crashes a kiss to her mouth. Hand settling at the small of her back; splay-fingered as he rocks up into her. Pool of fire between her hipbones now. Burst of brazier-sparks in her belly. Rises like a sea-wave — some molten pour of heavy water flushing up from where they are joined. Brushes every bone and beat of blood till she feels red-warm as her hair; moans tangling with half a hundred curses in her throat.

“I belong here,” breathes it against her lips, fingers slipping down between her hipbones. “Right… _here_.”

Tips back her head, gives a cry that shatters all the air from her lungs. “With me?”

“With you.”

Hooks her fingers at his nape, pulls him flush against her. “We will make them tremble, Jon. Those who shunned and hurt us.” Whimpers, howls, _whines_. “Each and all.”

“They will tremble, love — and they will fall.”

Twists her brow against his own, meets his ink-dark eyes. “Promise me, Jon.”

“I promise,” he whispers into her mouth. “Sansa, I _promise_.”

Not a man she is looking at now, not a lover — more than that. Bones, blood, breath; he is worked into the rhythm of each, knotted up amongst them all. Part of her and she — she is part of _him_ , too. Doesn’t speak. Just stares into his eyes, runs her fingertips over his tangled beard, cut cheek, leans close to kiss him.

He is bloodied and cleaved. Bile on his tongue. Makes no matter — blood, bile, black mud, bloom of her sharp-sweet scent — it tastes all the same to her. Tastes like _him_. Like _home_. Greedily, she drinks it.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to balance the rage and restraint in this here fic. Pure aching raw hunger simmering between them; whilst also being mindful of past abuses and traumas and things that _hurt_ and will continue to hurt no matter if you find a soulmate to help soothe them away or not. I hope whoever is reading this — _hi honey_ 👋 — found that balance rightly done. Back on my break now ( _curse you PhD_ *shakes fist*) but please let me know any and all thoughts if you desire to share them; I **so** adore reading (and replying to!) them. ❤️


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